


Simple Mortality

by Parksborn



Series: The Life and Times of Peter Parker and Matt Murdock [16]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Characterization, Illness, M/M, mentions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:57:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parksborn/pseuds/Parksborn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when Peter had forgotten the very concrete fact that Matt was actually only human, it would hit him in the way Flash used to hit him with dodge balls: Much like a brick and far, far too fast for him to be comfortable with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Mortality

Sometimes, when Peter had forgotten the very concrete fact that Matt was actually only human, it would hit him in the way Flash used to hit him with dodge balls: Much like a brick and far, far too fast for him to be comfortable with. Like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding, or a concussion that had Matt slurring nonsense on their couch. Of course, Matt was scrupulously careful and conscientious on the field, and Peter was often the one in these positions, much to his boyfriend's unpleasantly worried irritation.

But still, there were times, imagined or not, when Matt was down and out because of an injury, and his mortality slapped Peter straight in the face.

And then there were other times, when Matt was down and out because of pesky microbes and curled up in their bed, choking on the rather unpleasant taste of his drainage and hoping to block out all of the endless noise by burying his head in his pillow. And every time, he would tell Peter, however stuffily, to _get out_ before he got sick, too. And every time, Peter would set the cold medications down on the nightstand within Matt's reach and crawl into bed with him, face buried in the redhead's shoulder.

“ _Peder_ ,” Matt groaned, having half the mind to push the other away. “Ged oud, you're godda ged sigk.”

Peter smiled against his shoulder, and silently laughed to himself, hugging closer. “You sound funny, Matt. Get some sleep.”

“Peder. Goh.”

“Matt. Seriously. Shut up, and take the Nyquil and you'll be out in no time.”

Matt sighed, lying there silently for a moment before leaning up and reaching for the medications, downing them with no complaints, but more than enough faces to show his opinion on their flavor. Peter pulled him back down, settling further into the pillows himself. “Peder, you're godda cadch dis,” Matt warned, but pulled Peter to his chest anyway, arm wrapped around his brunette's waist, solid and fever-warm.

“I'll be fine,” Peter reassured, settling into Matt's hold.

“You'll be _biserable_ ,” Matt argued, snuffling.

“Okay, Sniffles, you go ahead and think that.”

“Fibe.”

“What?”

“I gibe you fibe days. Tops.”

“Oh hush up and go to bed, sicko,” Peter huffed, turning around in Matt's hold, back pressed against his lover's chest, his breaths skittering hot across Peter's neck.

“Pe—“

“Good _night_ , Matt.”

~~~~~~

Four days later found Peter collapsing gracelessly onto their couch, snuffling loudly, making Matt cringe from inside the kitchen. “You're sick,” Matt said plainly, entering the living room, arms crossed over his chest.

“S'all your fauld,” Peter grumbled, wiping at his nose with the back of his wrist.

“I warned you,” Matt said, dropping a box of tissues into Peter's lap as he passed. “Use those, and if I have to wash your snot out of my Columbia sweatshirt sleeve again, I'm actually going to kill you.”

“You will _dot_ ,” Peter argued back, kicking off his shoes and curling into the couch, tissue box set aside. When Matt reentered the room, he laid his Columbia sweats on the back of the couch, fingers threading into Peter's hair gently, feeling the younger's too-hot temperature practically radiating off of him.

“How long have you felt like shit?” Matt asked, moving the sweats from the back of the couch to Peter's lap, fingers leaving his hair.

“Couple of days,” Peter answered, shrugging off his layers and slipping on Matt's sweatshirt, his pants following suit, Matt's college sweatpants preferred over his jeans. Matt made a displeased sound, jaw tightening.

“You listen to me next time when I tell you to back off, alright?” Peter nodded, both knowing full well he wouldn't, and curled into the couch. “You're going to sleep here?”

“I'b sigck and I'b sleepy, so yes, I ab.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours.”

“No. It's _yours_.”

“Sshhh, I'b asleep, Madd.”

“Go to the bedroom, Pete, I'll bring you some meds in a minute.”

Peter squirmed around before standing and shuffling into their bedroom with a sniffle and a quiet, “You bedder.”

Matt chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head. Well, he could be a lot worse patient, and Matt just had to be thankful that he wasn't, and only ever requested blue Gatorade—which he had talked Foggy into getting—and Matt's company.


End file.
